The Rumsburg Elves
by NotAnIssue
Summary: Caution! Chapter 5 contains very realistic depiction of sexual assault of a minor by an adult. Bellatrix constructs a plan to distract Hermione and Ron from supporting Harry by giving them something even more terrifying to fear. Canon characters, AU.
1. Chapter 1

****** DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 ******

_This fic contains sexual assault of a minor by an adult._

_While sexual content has no place in the Harry Potter series, I couldn't stop wondering what would have happened if one of the main characters was sexually assaulted, and what affect it would have on the story and the motivations of the characters._

_This is my attempt to insert a nonexistent event near the beginning of Half-Blood Prince that creates an alternate universe to the existing books 6 and 7. I've remained true to canon characterization and events to that point in time and have inserted the event in an intelligent way that could fit into the existing story._

****** SERIOUSLY, DON'T READ MORE IF YOU'RE NOT 18 *******

A tall, dark-haired woman stood in the center of her sister's expensively decorated tearoom. None of the lamps were lit, but a merry fire crackled in the fireplace. Back and forth the flames danced, obviously unaware that the pale man who entered the room was not the sort of man anybody dared to dance in front of.

Bellatrix Lestrange bowed to her master. With a swish of his wand, Voldemort killed the fire as easily as he killed everything else when he desired. Killed everything, except one boy who had escaped Voldemort's murderous intentions more times than any living thing had done. Voldemort conjured an unhappy, urine-colored fire to light the tearoom.

"My Lord, I have something to tell you," Bellatrix spoke quickly, as if a dam of knowledge inside her was about to burst.

"You think that my plans are failing." It wasn't a question. Bellatrix frowned.

"I... I wouldn't know. The Dark Lord hasn't shared his plans with me, so I cannot know if they are in jeopardy."

"Am I wrong?" Voldemort hissed. "After my previous plan in the Ministry of Magic was destroyed by you and your fellows, would you say I was wrong to keep the next plan to myself?"

Bellatrix shifted.

"You are not keeping your thoughts from me," Voldemort continued. "I know what you feel."

"I am loyal, and therefore not afraid of your scrutiny," she said. "I did not know if you were aware of what happened at Snape's house last night? The Unbreakable Vow sworn in secret from the Dark Lord?"

"Of course I was aware. I crafted the encounter. I know how Narcissa feels about her son, how he feels for her," Voldemort spat as if he couldn't bear to have the words in his mouth. "Who else would your sister have run to, once I gave her son the task of killing Dumbledore? The only one who could protect him at school was the one whose loyalty I needed to test. And Narcissa unknowingly tested Snape for me... I needed to see if he valued the nauseating relationship between your sister and your nephew more than he valued his loyalty to me."

Bellatrix looked triumphant. "Severus was disloyal! And now you know he is! He's keeping secrets from you!"

"Why do you celebrate disloyalty to my cause?" Voldemort glared at her with deadly red eyes. "Are you here to tell me that you're smarter than I am? Perhaps you should be in charge of the next plan, since you know all?"

Bellatrix bowed and apologized.

"If you are so eager to be part of a plan, then you will be the head of my next project. If you fail me, I promise to secure a room for you next to the Longbottom's at St. Mungo's for the rest of your miserable life."

A fleeting look of fear was replaced by eagerness on Bellatrix's face. "I will do anything you ask."

"Who are Harry Potter's friends?"

"Harry Potter's friends?"

"I find it difficult to believe you don't remember them. They bested my most loyal Death Eaters, including you, in the Department of Mysteries."

"There was the Longbottom boy, the mudblood, the Weasley traitors."

Voldemort stared into the green-yellow fire.

"I felt them," he whispered, "I felt each of them when I took over the boy. It was sickening, to the point that I couldn't bear to be inside of him any longer."

Bellatrix said nothing.

"You believe me weak," he said. "I know what you feel."

"No, my Lord. Harry Potter is weak for having those people, for needing them."

"Obviously not!" Voldemort yelled. "Not if they were able to drive me out of him!"

"I didn't mean... I mean we can use them to make Harry Potter weak! Like we used Sirius!"

Bellatrix was against the wall, Voldemort inches from her.

"You killed Sirius," he said, "and that was the most poisonous of all while I was in the boy's head. Destroying the people he is close to somehow only makes them stronger in his mind, and makes him stronger against me! Killing his mother made him stronger. Killing that other student in the graveyard made him stronger. Killing Sirius made him stronger. If my Death Eaters keep killing people he's close to, he'll eventually have enough power to destroy me!"

"You are his biggest fear," Bellatrix said, "and you are the biggest fear of all of his friends and loved ones. But what if all of his friends and loved ones hated something more than they hated you?"

The tearoom was silent. The fire resisted popping and re-settling itself as Voldemort contemplated the idea.

"Explain your meaning further," he said.

"A child who hides in the closet from a muggle burglar," Bellatrix quoted, "is perfect for the dementor who waits in the closet."

"You have proven your loyalty to me, which has earned you a chance to prove yourself useful." Voldemort said. "If you think you can create a fear separate from me and it is nothing but advantageous to helping me destroy Harry Potter, then you are free to do so."

The fire in the fireplace popped and settled, letting out a sigh that Bellatrix echoed. The mudblood would have to be first.


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver Rumsburg was not magical at all, though nobody outside of his family knew it. His father was a wizard, and so were all of Oliver's brothers and sisters, but he never felt sorry for himself for being a squib. He had six older siblings, and there were twelve years between him and the next youngest brother, twenty years between him and his oldest sister, so he never even saw them around as they went to school and left the home to start their careers and families.

Oliver was always alone, except for the house elves, his mother and the men that his mother entertained in secret while his father was at work.

He stayed home and learned everything he could that didn't require a wand. He learned Goblin language and astronomy. He learned the entire history of the magical world and read the Daily Prophet every morning. At age fourteen, he was more informed of international wizarding politics than even his father was.

At the age of seventeen, Oliver found out that even though he was skilled and knowledgeable about many things in the magical world, he was not allowed to be employed at the Ministry of Magic. A security risk, a safety hazard... they gave him half a dozen official reasons (and two dozen unofficial reasons) that he couldn't make them reconsider.

Oliver became a waiter at a pub in Knockturn Alley, hiding his inability to use magic from the haughty pure-bloods. He was never tipped well because customers always assumed that Oliver was slow and clumsy. They thought he avoided using magic, just to spite them, and never knew he was non-magical. When he was fired as the waiter, he became a regular at the pub.

Years and years passed. His family sent him money in embarrassment every time he was arrested. They told him to find his way into the muggle world, but he knew nothing about that world. The world of magic was his, but he had no place in it.

He stopped coming to the pub so regularly, but nobody noticed the sudden change. He became happier than he had been in years, but nobody saw. He purchased flowers and gifts for unknown courtships, dress robes for unknown occasions, and nobody noticed.

Young witches started disappearing, and people noticed. After weeks of vigorous searching, the witches were assumed dead, victims of You Know Who.

When baby Harry Potter bested You Know Who, it was expected that some news of the kidnapped witches would surface, but none of You Know Who's captured followers knew about the girls.

Years later, the decrepit shack that Oliver Rumsburg called home was raided on an anonymous tip and each of the missing witches were found, alive. Their physical scars were healed easily, but the rest of their lives were poisoned by their time with Oliver Rumsburg.

Oliver was the first muggle ever sentenced to Azkaban. He was a muggle, not a squib, he had found out. His wizard father was not really his father at all: just a man who ignored his wife long enough that she looked elsewhere for attention, and found it with another muggle, and had Oliver as a result.

Oliver couldn't see the ghosts that haunted the empty corridors of Azkaban, but knew they were Dementors. He knew that people often starved themselves in the prison, but he kept eating. He kept himself alive. It was a kind of game: "Outlive the Newest Prisoner" and Oliver was determined never to lose. When he was released, he'd be able to tell everyone that he was more powerful than even the most magical of Voldemort's followers, that he'd paid his time for his crimes and that he deserved a chance to succeed in the magical world despite his inability to use magic.

So he kept himself alive.

Oliver was released several years before his sentence was through. The Dark Lord was returning, everyone said, and his followers were filling Azkaban as attacks on muggles and wizards became more frequent. The dementors were no longer there to keep the prisoners placated, so anyone who was not a follower of You-Know-Who was released. They were banned from owning a wand until their original sentence time was through, which of course didn't affect Oliver at all.

He returned to his pub in Knockturn Alley, only to discover that it had closed and been turned to a potions shop.

An owl screeched and landed in front of him. It carried a note, a brown package and a copy of the Daily Prophet. Oliver detached them all, ignoring the Daily Prophet. He hadn't handled a copy of the newspaper since he was 17 and still hoped for a job at the Ministry.

He read the note. It informed him that all of his siblings, each of his older brothers and sisters, had died in the past month. Their father had also died, leaving Oliver with the house in London where he'd grown up.

Oliver read it again because he could hardly believe it. Not because he was upset, but he couldn't imagine how they ALL could have died before him.

The reason for their deaths was listed as a defect in the heart that all the children inherited from their father. By the time they suffered the symptoms, it was too late for magic to save them. Oliver, being unrelated to the man his mother married, had inherited no bad heart, but had inherited the house: there was nobody else it could be passed down to.

Oliver returned to the vacant house, wondering how he was going to restart his life: the life of a muggle in the magical world.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ron! There is a house with fifteen helpless house elves trapped inside!" Hermione didn't expect Ron to share her outrage, but she did expect some recognition of injustice. She shook the Daily Prophet article at the tiny fireplace.

Ron yawned amid the flames. "I thought you said this was an emergency?"

"It IS an emergency," she said, throwing clothes into her trunk as quickly as she could. "Will you please come with me to London, just to look at the situation? I promise I won't try to free any house elves while you're there. I just want to see what kind of man needs so many, and maybe show him my new pamphlets."

She looked up from her trunk. Ron's eyes were closed.

"RON!"

"Wha—?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"It's six in the morning, Hermione. Did you honestly wake me up just to take you to some old hermit's place in the city to talk about his house elves who, I'd reckon, don't want to be freed in the first place?"

"What if something happens to me? What if a Dementor attacks me?" Maybe Ron would come if he thought she needed him.

"You know you're better at patronuses than I am." His eyes were closed again.

"Fine!" she huffed. "Go back to bed. I'll tell you how it goes this afternoon when I'm at the Burrow, if you've woken up by then."

Ron gave a halfhearted nod and slipped out of the fireplace.

Of course he wouldn't come—Hermione thought as she continued packing—she'd gotten between him and his sleep. He wouldn't care if she got hurt, not unless she managed to get his favorite pillow destroyed in the process.

She looked down at the Daily Prophet article that she had read only minutes before. Actually, she'd read most of it. The owl who brought the newspaper must have gotten into some kind of collision with another owl carrying an ink bottle, because when it said "continued on last page", the last page was simply black and sticky.

But she'd gotten the most important parts. A Dementor had entered a wizard's house, and passed a sleeping house elf that was supposed to be on guard. Another house elf realized the danger and barely saved the wizard using its powerful house elf magic.

The house elf that had fallen asleep was set free as punishment; witches and wizards overheard his cries outside the home for several hours. Finally, someone from the Ministry took the house elf away, which is when the Ministry was alerted of Dementors in the area.

That's what Hermione assumed the rest of the article would be about: Dementors.

Hidden in the text of the article, there was mention that there were fifteen house elves in the one house. Hermione had never heard of so many in a single home; even though she was raised as a muggle, she was certain it wasn't normal.

When Hermione was finished packing, she said goodbye to her parents and set off for London in a taxi. Crookshanks yowled in protest.

She told the driver to stop a street away and out of sight of Chester Nook's entrance. Hermione asked if he could wait for her to return, and he grumbled his assent. She left Crookshanks and her trunk.

She almost missed the hidden entrance to the magical street. It was disguised to look like a second-hand clothing store from the outside. On the inside it was long and empty. Hermione practiced what she would say as she walked to the back door.

Chester Nook was a pleasant kind of place. It looked like it had been made for carriages, not cars, so the streets felt more like they were made for pedestrians. Which, now that it was hidden from muggles, it was only used by pedestrians, Hermione realized.

She found number 32 and knocked. Something felt oddly cold around Hermione, and she looked over her shoulder to make sure that a Dementor wasn't approaching.

"Who are you?" a thin voice pierced the air. Hermione jumped, dropping her SPEW button and pamphlets. The man who owned the voice—Rumsburg, according to the article—stood at the door of number 32, and was a hodgepodge of mismatched facial features. A snowman's nose, a weak chin, child-sized ears, and a never-ending forehead that reached all the way back as far as Hermione could see.

"What's all this?" he demanded, kicking a pamphlet off the doorstep.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, hurrying to pick everything up before it all blew away in the unnaturally cold breeze.

Rumsburg began to close the door and a white-haired house elf peeked out from behind him.

She stood up, the pamphlets and S.P.E.W button gathered wildly in her hands.

"Please, I, I just want to talk." She couldn't let him shut her out.

Rumsburg wasn't even looking at Hermione, though.

He yelled over Hermione's shoulder. "She just wants to talk, you heard her!"

She looked behind her where a concerned-looking witch stood in the street a few houses away.

"Are you all right, dear?" the witch asked Hermione.

"Yes, I just dropped my pamphlets." Hermione waved a hand filled with parchments to show. "I'm fine."

"She came here on her own," Rumsburg said to the witch, defensively.

Hermione nodded, hoping that if the witch was gone that he would talk to Hermione.

"Tell me what you're sellin," said Rumsburg, as if reading her thoughts. "Tell me about Spew."

"Actually," Hermione said, "it's S.P.E.W and it stands for the Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare."

As she spoke, Hermione noticed Rumsburg's gaze flick away several times toward the witch on the street. He was very distractible.

"Come inside," he interrupted when the witch was out of sight.

It wasn't an invitation as much as it was a command, and Hermione instantly wished Ron was with her. Rumsburg opened the door wide enough for her to come inside, but she didn't move.

"If you don't come in, then don't bother selling me this Spew stuff ever again!"

Hermione could see into the house. Three house elves peeked into the front hallway. Three out of fifteen.

She took a steadying breath, and went inside.


	4. Chapter 4

"Why on earth were you using the fireplace so early this morning?" Mum asked, putting Ron's plate of breakfast on the table in front of him.

Sniffing it in, Ron felt awake for the first time that morning and stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth before realizing that Mum was waiting for an answer.

"It wa' uh'mione" he spat pieces of bacon onto Ginny's plate by accident, but she didn't see.

"Hermione?" Mum asked.

Ron swallowed. "Yeah, she's finally coming down today"

"Were you planning on telling me about it sometime before she came?"

He hadn't. In fact, he hadn't thought of Hermione in the two hours since they had talked through the fireplace.

"Can she stay in my room?" Ginny asked.

"Where else would she stay," said Ron, "the henhouse?"

Ginny made a face. Ron made a rude hand gesture when Mum wasn't looking.

"So she'll be here soon?" asked Mum, oblivious.

"She has to go somewhere in London first," Ron said, then took another bite.

"London!" Mum nearly dropped her wand. Ron raised his eyebrows. She threw her hands onto her hips, reminding Ron strongly of an angry chicken, wings spread to make her look more imposing. "What on earth could she be doing in London? It's downright dangerous with all the Dementors and muggle-killings."

Ron swallowed his second bite.

"I dunno what she's doing, Mum." It was true... He was so used to ignoring "spew talk" with Harry, that nothing in his memory gave any clues as to where she went. He had been so sleepy.

"Well I hope you didn't let her go alone?"

Ron's heart dropped a little.

"Of course I didn't let her go alone," he lied, trying to hide his guilt by taking a gulp of juice.

"I suppose if she has someone with her, it's not nearly as dangerous."

He excused himself from breakfast as soon as he could without drawing attention to himself.

Ron sat on his bed and pressed his hands into his eyes, trying to squeeze the memory of the early-morning conversation from his brain. He'd give anything for a Pensieve.

He remembered the newspaper. Hermione was shaking an article at him. An article about House Elves. He set off to find the family's copy of the Daily Prophet.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

For being such an old house, number thirty-two Chester Nook was quite bare. The Black household on Grimmauld Place had been filled with old artifacts and family treasures. The treasures were horrible, dark things, but there was a history to the place. Chester Nook was like a dress mannequin that hadn't worn a garment in years.

Rumsburg led Hermione to a round sitting room. A pair of hard chairs sat at either end of a squat table, which looked as though it had been crafted for children to use.

Hermione sat and spread a pamphlet out waiting for Rumsburg to sit across from her.

"Tea?" Rumsburg asked. A hopeful-looking house elf was waiting at Rumsburg's heels for Hermione's answer.

"No thank you," Hermione said, smiling directly at the house elf. She was trying to show her happiness in not having to bother the elf. Looking dejected, cheated out of what he obviously thought would have been a good time, the elf bowed and sulked to the far side of the room.

"How old are you?"

Rumsburg had been staring at her, Hermione suddenly realized. It felt like Dumbledore's stare—like Rumsburg was looking into her and knew her—but this gaze was wholly unlike Dumbledore's.

"I'm sixteen," she said.

"You look thirteen."

She didn't know how to reply, so she didn't. She didn't want tea or to chat about how old she looked. She wanted to talk about the elves and leave as quickly as she could.

Or maybe she should just leave?

Three more house elves appeared in the room, joining the first. Hermione's courage swelled and she knew she couldn't give up on them.

"I'd like to talk to you about S.P.E.W." she said. "Won't you sit down?"

"It's my house! I'll be the one to invite someone to sit down!"

Hermione was taken aback. His voice was so weak as it yelled it might have been amusing, but there was nothing amusing about his expression.

Rumsburg stood a few seconds longer before sitting down. Hermione hesitated before spinning the pamphlets so he could read them.

"This is a complete history of House Elves as recorded in wizarding history," she pointed at the top of the first pamphlet. "As you can tell, there are significant gaps in the incorporation of House Elves into the domestic life, where witches and wizards were too embarrassed to divulge why and how House Elves were no longer allowed to freely roam ancient castles and ruins, but were magically bound by their own magic to a single house and family."

"Is this about Mester?" Rumsburg looked furious. "That damned House Elf almost got me killed! I HAD to set him free!"

"No!" Hermione was startled. "No, I'm not here to blame you. I think it's wonderful you freed, what was his name? Mester?"

"He was my favorite," Rumsburg said, "and I hated to do it."

With an inward sigh, Hermione felt hopelessness threatening to overtake her determination. And there was something about his voice that made her uncomfortable. It was like he was talking through his huge, pointed nose instead of his mouth. Again, she felt like she should leave some pamphlets behind and just get out. Why was she being such a coward?

"My family is dead, you know," Rumsburg said, almost as if he was trying to fill the silence. "All of them dead, and all the house elves from all the dead families houses came here when the houses were sold. That's why I have so many." He swept a hand backwards across his bald forehead and scalp.

"Was it He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Hermione asked.

"What?" Rumsburg's thin eyebrows furrowed, then he shook his head. "No! Not him! Not You-Know-Who! He wouldn't care about a bunch of half-bloods with no money or power. No, they were just a bunch of witches and wizards with a genetic defect that I managed to dodge."

Rumsburg leaned forward in his chair, his eyes coming alive.

"I just got back from Azkaban last week."

"I'm... I'm sorry..." Even though she knew it was there, Hermione shifted so that she could feel that her wand in her pocket.

"Don't you want to know what I was in for?"

Hermione reached to the pamphlet, folded it and said, "I really just wanted to talk about your house elves."

Suddenly, Rumsburg's hand reached out and grasped Hermione's wrist. She was so stunned, she couldn't figure out what to say or do.

"They don't have house elves in Azkaban," he whispered, a disturbing and unexpected change from his weak, nasal voice. His grip on her wrist tightened. "House elves are more powerful than the dementors, so they keep house elves away from Azkaban."

Hermione regained her wits and pulled her wrist away from his grasp. He let go after the tiniest hesitation. In that hesitation, she felt unexpected, possibly magically-enhanced strength.

She stood, leaving the pamphlets on the too-low table, trying not to think about one of the house elves being forced to clean up her mess.

"I have a car waiting," she said more loudly than she meant. "I have to return to it before... before my friend Ron gets worried."

"Ron is one lucky wizard to have you." Rumsburg stood, too.

Hermione stormed to the hall, furious that she let herself be tricked into being alone with a creepy ex-convict, and furious at Ron for not coming with her.

Rounding the corner, Hermione screamed.

Thirty tennis-ball sized eyes stared at her. She had only seen this many house elves in the Hogwarts kitchen, which was much bigger than the crowded front hallway of number 32 Chester Nook.

"Let me leave," she told the elves in front of her. They looked over her shoulder at Rumsburg. Hermione couldn't order them unless they knew Rumsburg approved.

"Why do you have to leave?" he asked. "I am lonely, and you're the first visitor I've had." Rumsburg reached for her shoulder.

Hermione scowled. She had dealt with Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban, who had tortured her friends and killed Sirius. This Rumsburg was hardly notorious compared to them.

She grasped her wand and turned to face him squarely. His hand stopped its advancement towards her shoulder.

"You WILL let me leave," she said, eyes narrowed, wand raised.

He didn't even have a wand, she noticed. His original wand was destroyed when he went to Azkaban and he must not have purchased one since his release.

"You will not leave," he growled ominously, "until I say you can leave."

Hermione swished her wand, "Petrificus Tot-OOF!"

Something hard hit Hermione on the back of both her knees and she lost balance, forced to take a step to steady herself. Her wand was suddenly out of her hands.

"NO!" she screamed. A house elf grasped her wand and placed it inside the drabby, stained cloth that draped over his body. All of the fifteen waist-high creatures moved towards her as the one with her wand lost himself among them. They started pressing against her.

Rumsburg, now no longer threatened by a wand, reached out to grab Hermione. She dodged his grasp and began a mad rush to the front door. But she couldn't move fast enough. Even in her desperation she couldn't bring herself to kick any of the house elves out of her way.

She didn't know if Rumsburg was close behind, but she was almost to the front door when there was a burst of magical light from one of the elves. It soared through the air and into the lock of the door. She pulled and pulled at the knob, but it was locked.

Hermione spun around to face Rumsburg, who smiled as he commanded: "Grab her."

Eight hands wrapped around her feet and ankles and pressed downward. She was rooted to the spot as if her feet were stuck in hardened cement.

"This is a misunderstanding." She said it in the most diplomatic tone she could muster, forcing her anger down into a tiny place inside of her.

"You came to me," Rumsburg said, stepping toward her.

"I have muggle money in my pocket," She pulled out the money her parents had given her for school supplies. "You can exchange it for galleons in Diagon Alley."

"Don't want money." Rumsburg took another step as the house elves parted to let him through.

Hermione let the money fall to the ground.

"You can keep my wand. I know you must have lost yours when you went to Azkaban, so I'll let you have mine."

Rumsburg laughed and gestured at the house elves. "Does it look like I need a magic wand to perform magic?"

He came closer. House elves grabbed Hermione's wrists, as if they knew she was going to try to claw at Rumsburg's eyes when he got close enough. She couldn't back away as he reached for her face.

"I'll give you whatever you want," Hermione said in an unfamiliar, weak voice. "Just let me leave!"

"I told you, I'm a lonely man." Rumsburg ran his finger sideways across her forehead, pushing away a lock of hair that had fallen across her face.


	5. Chapter 5

"What are you doing?" Ginny asked from the doorway.

Ron sat in the middle of his room, that morning's Daily Prophet scattered around him in an almost perfect circle at arm's length. The moving photographs made him feel like he was in the middle of a shallow puddle, with ripples of movement catching his eye.

"Since when do you read the Daily Prophet?" asked Ginny.

If they hadn't just plundered the Department of Mysteries together a month before, he would never have told her. But she looked so much older than he remembered... and she would be able to help.

"Find an article about house elves," he said.

"Find it yourself."

"I lied to Mum," he mumbled, shifting the paper. "Hermione's in London alone and—" he felt the shame rising again, "she asked me to go with her and I said no."

"Hermione knows ten times more jinxes than you do. How on earth could YOU protect HER?" Ginny sneered at him, but was already on the floor sifting through the articles.

When he first checked the paper Ron wasn't necessarily worried; he was going to see where Hermione went, in case Mum really got on his case about it. But as he scanned article after article of witches and wizards disappearing, muggle-borns being harassed, and violent attacks in London... why didn't he just tell Hermione to come to the Burrow first?

Ron put the pages that were empty of House Elf news into a pile behind him.

"Ew," Ginny said.

"What?"

"That one Oliver Rumsburg wizard is out of Azkaban"

Ron furrowed his eyebrows. "I thought he was in for life?"

"He was, but this article says that him and a bunch of other Azkaban prisoners were released to make room for supporters of You-Know-Who, now that they're not using Dementors as guards."

"Just because he's not a supporter of You-Know-Who doesn't mean he's not dangerous."

Ron hadn't fully understood the news stories about Rumsburg when he was only eight years old, listening to snippets about it on the Wizarding Wireless Network. Every single time something about it came on, Mum always came in to turn it off saying Ron didn't need to hear _that_ kind of news.

Ron understood that Rumsburg was a kidnapper, but it wasn't until Ron was older that he understood that Rumsburg did more to those witches than just keep them locked up.

Ginny shrugged. "Maybe his notorious days of kidnapping witches to be his servants are over," she said. "It says he was almost killed by a dementor at his house, but a stupid house elf saved his life for some reason. I should tell Cho Chang to be careful. I think her mother lives in that part of London."

Ron tore the paper out of Ginny's hands. Who cared about Cho Chang? Ron scanned the article about Rumsburg and the words "fifteen house elves" jumped out, and felt like a punch to Ron's stomach.

Hermione—stupid, STUPID Hermione—was on her way to THE Oliver Rumsburg's house.

She wouldn't know, Ron realized. Hermione wouldn't know about Rumsburg's crimes from before she joined the wizarding world.

If anything happened to Hermione while she was in London, it would be his own fault. The realization felt like another punch in the stomach. If anything was happening to her right that moment...

Suddenly, Ron was sick all over the newspaper. It was the breakfast he so stupidly yearned for as Hermione went on and on about visiting Oliver Rumsburg's _house_. He was glad to get the food out of him, every last ounce of it.

"Ron?" Ginny was on her feet and she sounded scared. Strangely, her fear seemed to make Ron's go away. He wiped his mouth and pulled out his wand.

"Scourgify." The mess cleaned itself up and Ron started for the door.

"Wait!" Ginny hissed, stomping in front of him. "You tell me what THAT was all about!"

"It's Hermione. She's at Rumsburg's house."

Ginny went pale, her freckles standing out vividly on the suddenly white face.

Ron opened the door.

"I'm going with you." Ginny said.

Ron took a deep breath and closed the door without going through it.

"Ginny," he could tell she was already preparing for an argument so he spoke quickly. "I know I've been mean to you before. I know I've been stupid when it comes to boys you like and saying you can't do stuff when I know you can. You're a better witch than I am wizard, to be honest, but I'd be the worst brother on earth if I lead you into that man's house. I could never live with myself if something happened to you."

Ginny didn't argue. Not yet.

"I need you here," Ron continued. "Hermione might not be in trouble, but if she is I need you to know immediately once I find out. I'll give you a signal with the coins from DA. I'll send HELP or OK. If it's HELP, or if it's been longer than 3 hours, tell Dad, and Dumbledore, and whoever else you can get hold of. You already know that if Mum knows about this she won't let me go, so I have to sneak away before you tell her."

Ginny looked furious, but Ron didn't have time to argue. He ran.

*******

"Now isn't this nice?"

Rumsburg took a sip of tea from an oversized yellow cup, bending awkwardly over the low table in the sitting room. He sounded genuine, his nasal voice cheery. He looked at Hermione to agree with him.

Hermione's arms were tied behind the hard chair, a house elf helpfully held the scalding tea to her lips. She had no choice but to sip, burning her tongue. Her feet were tied around the chair's back legs, making her feel like she was pitched forward.

"Ron will know," she repeated to herself. When she didn't show up at the Burrow, he would know, and he would know where she was, and she would be rescued. She just had to stay alive until tonight.

She tried to forget the fact that she had to do extensive research to find out where Chester Nook was located in London, and which house on Chester Nook Rumsburg lived in. But Ron would figure it out. He had to.

"You're not listening to me," Rumsburg said darkly.

"I'm sorry."

"I thought you loved House Elves, so I'm telling you all about how one of them saved my life by destroying a dementor and you don't even care."

Hermione wished that the dementor had gotten its way and had sucked Rumsburg's soul out of his body...

The house elf offered her another sip.

"No thank you," she said to the young-looking elf, but he was stubborn, and put the cup to her mouth, tipping the cup higher, burning her upper lip with the scalding tea. She pulled away and the entire cup of near-boiling liquid splashed onto the front of her muggle shirt and shorts.

The tea went straight through the fabric to her skin. At first it was just wet and she thought it would be okay, but then she felt her skin pulse with the pain of the heat.

"Ow!" Hermione wriggled against her restraints. She blew frantically and writhed, trying to keep the hot fabric from touching the places where she was burned.

"Oh no!" Rumsburg said, "Your shirt is ruined!" He moved his chair nearer to where she sat.

Hermione froze.

"It's fine," she whispered through her numb, heat-swollen lips, gritting her teeth against the pain.

Rumsburg placed his chair close enough that he could reach her.

He went to unbutton the top button of her shirt.

"Leave it!" she yelled, twisting as much as her restraints allowed. "Please, I... I don't mind it, really." But it was too late. He had unbuttoned the first button.

"Maybe while I wash your clothes," he unbuttoned the second button, "you can think of something for us to talk about since you seem to be so disinterested in what I have to say."

There it was. Of course he wanted to talk after being in Azkaban and coming home to nothing but a house filled with house-elves.

Third button.

"I want to talk!" she said.

_Stall him. Stop him! Don't let him touch you!_ He had four more buttons to go, but had paused his progress.

"Tell me!" she gasped. "Tell me about Mester."

Rumsburg's hands dropped into his lap.

"I don't like thinking about him," Rumsburg said flatly, turning his face to the floor.

"I thought he was your favorite?" she pressed.

"He was."

"How long has he been your house elf?"

"He's not my house elf anymore."

"How long was he your house elf before he... had to leave?"

"My whole life."

Rumsburg, unexpectedly, let out a sob. His limp hands turned into fists in his lap. He looked desperately unhappy.

"My dad... died.... when I was 5.... Mum when I was... 7," Rumsburg sobbed at the floor. "None of my extended family wanted to take me in, so Mester raised me. What other kid has to go to get their school supplies with just a House Elf?" He raised his head to look at Hermione.

"That's horrible," Hermione said, truthfully.

A wide grin spread across Rumsburg's thin face.

"Ha! You're the most gullible girl I've ever met! You'd probably believe it if I told you I was a muggle!"

Hermione's pity disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. His sobs had seemed so real, but there wasn't a single tear on his face. She couldn't believe she let herself care about Rumsburg, even if it was only for a moment.

She turned her head away from him.

He cupped her chin and pointed her head in his direction.

As if led by an inner force not entirely under her own control, Hermione bit Rumsburg's hand, hard.

His other hand slapped her across the face. She tried to pull her hands up to cover the stinging, prickling flesh, but they were, of course, stuck behind her. Tears sprung to her eyes and fell easily across the hot cheek.

"Why did you make me do that!?" Rumsburg yelled, rubbing the hand she bit. "I didn't want to do that but you made me do it!"

He stood up and Hermione glared at him. "I'm not MAKING you do anything!"

"You wanted this," Rumsburg insisted, pacing like a caged animal. "Why else would you come to MY house?"

"I didn't know! I didn't know about you or about Azkaban! I just wanted to free your house-elves."

"House elves," he spat. "Hollis!"

A fat house elf with a head full of hair waddled into the sitting room.

"Get me tape and a black cloth."

Hollis bowed, and left.

"There was a house elf who saved the life of my friend, Harry Potter, even when he was supposedly loyal to another family," Hermione said, hoping to instill some kind of doubt in Rumsburg about the loyalty of his legion of elves.

"HA!" Rumsburg's laugh was like a honk. "Your friend Harry Potter? And I'm going out with the Wicked Sisters. And my best mate is Minister Scrimgeour. Didn't you know that's why I was let out of Azkaban early? HA! Friends with Harry Potter indeed!"

"House elves deserve to be free!" Hermione said when Hollis returned with a cloth and strip of tape. "They shouldn't have to do things just because you want them to!"

"Oh, but that's my favorite thing about them," Rumsburg said, holding the edges of the tape with his thumbs and index fingers.

Hermione turned to Hollis. "Please," she said, "Please you have to tell someone that I'm here! Tell Ron! Tell Crookshanks!"

Hollis just looked at Rumsburg, who shook his head. Hollis shrugged at Hermione with indifference. Her wishes weren't the same as his master's. Hollis bowed and left.

"Now you stay still," Rumsburg lined the tape up to Hermione's mouth. "If it doesn't go on right, then I'm pulling it off without magic and putting it on again until it goes on straight. That won't feel good at all."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Hermione whispered.

"So you don't bite me anymore." Rumsburg smiled and pressed the tape onto her burned lips. The tape sealed completely, and she could feel the magical stickiness of it when she tried to open her mouth.

"That's better," he said. His face inched closer to hers.

_I could head-butt him_, she thought. Though the only result would be an injury for the both of them, with her still tied up and him even angrier than when she'd bitten him.

He sniffed her hair, above her ear. She couldn't avoid smelling him as she inhaled through her nose. He had a stale, apothecary smell to him, as if he had smeared old herbs and iron-rich minerals into his skin.

"The women in Azkaban don't smell like this," he growled, inhaling again.

Hermione had liked it when Viktor, the only wizard she'd ever kissed, smelled her hair. It made her feel beautiful and elegant. Every sniff that Rumsburg took was like poison in her, causing her beauty to shrivel and shrink into a tiny corner in her mind.

Rumsburg pulled away, facing Hermione again.

"Did you like that?"

She couldn't bear to look at him, so she looked down. He moved to try to intercept her gaze, but she darted her eyes upwards. He grabbed her jaw with his huge hand and squeezed, hard.

"I try to be nice..." He tossed her chin sideways and he turned and grabbed the black cloth from the table. "You keep making me do things that I don't want to do!"

Hermione kicked herself, mentally. _You idiot! Play along or he'll keep making it worse!_

She shook her head in apology, trying to catch his eye while he walked behind her, but he wasn't looking at her.

"First you avoid conversation during tea, then you can't keep your teeth to yourself while I'm helping you, then you can't even stand to look at me, is that it?"

He was behind her now. He finally looked down and she stared at him desperately, shaking her head, trying to apologize with her eyes.

"Close your eyes."

Hermione's heart felt like it was beating in her arched throat. She had to listen to him or he'd get angry. She closed her eyes tight and tears spilled out of the corners, falling towards her ears. He pushed her head so that she was sitting normally again and the cloth was around her eyes so tight that she couldn't open her eyes against the pressure.

Rumsburg's finger touched the bridge of her nose, and followed the cloth to her ear. Then his fingers were barely touching her neck and his voice whispered into her ear:

"Do you like that?"

His voice felt like a stinging insect about to buzz into her ear. She wanted to swat, to cringe, to run away. Instead, she nodded in reply.

Hermione had no idea if that was the right thing to do. No book she ever read prepared her for this. No teacher ever taught her if it was better to fight against him until he killed her, or if it was better to lie to him and pretend to enjoy the most horrible moments of her life.

The only helpful advice she could muster was from a lifetime ago, when she was little and teachers told her never to go into a stranger's car or house.

Something wet touched Hermione's chin, right where her burn was, and she jerked away.

"It's just my fingers." Rumsburg said. "I dipped them in some water." He let the cool water drip on her chin and it did ease the throbbing.

"That felt good, didn't it?" Rumsburg said.

Hermione nodded.

He followed the line of burned skin from her chin, down her neck and across her collarbone. His wet fingers kept pressing, further and further down until he reached the closed fourth button on her shirt. It was the last button that was keeping her bra hidden from view.

She barely felt his nose against her neck, and he inhaled slowly, purposefully. Then he blew very gently on the wet spots that covered the burn, all the way down to the next closed button. It eased the pain of the burn, but it sent needles of a different kind of pain much deeper inside of her.

Her shirt rustled and she felt cooler air where her shirt had been closed.

"No!" she screamed, except the tape over her mouth turned it into nothing more than a terrified, muffled shout. Button four had been unbuttoned.

"That meant 'yes' right? You like how that feels against this nasty burn?"

Hermione strained against the restraints, but she hardly moved.

"I asked 'do you like that?'" he snapped.

Stay alive. Stay alive. She nodded in reply.

His icy finger traced the burn, skipping over her bra and back onto the skin until it hit the next button. He pressed his nose against the newly exposed skin and inhaled hungrily. The skin was burning, then cooled as he blew.

Button five. The breaths moving in and out of Hermione's nose quickened. The sound of it felt magnified as it rushed to and fro over the tape.

He traced his cold, wet finger down her belly and plunged it into her bellybutton, making her gasp. He pressed his face against her stomach and inhaled her scent before blowing on the burn again.

Button Six.

Hermione felt tears absorb into the cloth over her eyes. As much as she wanted to be saved, the last thing she wanted was Ron to come in and see her like this. Who could save her without adding to her humiliation? Not Harry, not Mr. Weasley, certainly not Dumbledore or anyone from the Order. She didn't want anyone to see her tied to this chair, helpless to free herself with Rumsburg's dirty face pressed against her bare stomach. She couldn't imagine the horrifying embarrassment of being untied by someone so that she could button her shirt back up.

The Last Button.

"You're crying."

Hermione shook her head, sniffing in as hard as she could. She couldn't let herself cry, or she'd fill up her nose with mucus and she'd suffocate.

He pulled her shirt apart. A hand covered her stomach, cold and spidery.

The water-chilled fingertips pressed slightly, and inched down just a bit. It was enough, Hermione realized, that the tips of his fingers were just under the band of her shorts and her pants.

_You won't die from this. Stay alive. He won't kill you. Just cooperate._

"Has a boy touched you here before?"

She truthfully shook her head no.

"Because you seem calmer than the other girls were. Are you calm?"

Hermione didn't know what he wanted to hear. She shook her head slowly back and forth.

She couldn't see his reaction, and didn't know if it was right or wrong. He just pushed his hand further downward, and let it rest again.

Was he looking at her with hunger? Was he just bored? How far would he go before he stopped? Would he eventually kill her so that she could never tell the truth of what happened?

If she was going to die anyway, shouldn't she fight as hard as she could until he killed her?

The tips of Rumsburg's fingers brushed against the most sensitive part of her, and her knees couldn't close together to stop him.

Hermione suddenly felt like she was sitting across the room without a blindfold. She was watching herself in the chair, watching Rumsburg's fingers wiggling within her shorts.

She saw her body twitching and moving involuntarily, but didn't feel like it was actually happening to herself, even though she knew it was. She watched his hand move even further until it disappeared. The Hermione in the chair writhed and began to scream and sob behind the gag.

She was horrified, wishing she could turn away, but she couldn't control the part of her that was watching. Rumsburg was behind the chair, both hands reaching around: one in her shorts, the other pushed up under her bra.

Since she wasn't feeling it, the sound of it is what made Hermione feel sickest. The room was so silent, magnifying the sound of hands against fabric, the sound of her muffled sobs, of his breathing, of the quickening repetition of moisture against skin.

Just as suddenly as she left herself, she was back inside herself, back behind the gag and plunged into the darkness behind the blindfold. She was filled with terror, and filled with a dirty, cold finger that moved like a snake within her.

She lurched her body so violently that she nearly tipped over the chair.

"It's the best feeling there is, isn't it?" Rumsburg was breathless behind her. "It'd be a great way to die." He pulled his hand out from under her bra without putting it back it its proper place. Not that Hermione had a chance to care, for at that moment, Rumsburg pressed her nose shut.

Hermione's body went into hysterics, trying to suck in breath that couldn't come into her nose or mouth. She couldn't cough or inhale, and she realized with a wave of helplessness that she was going to die.

Rumsburg's other hand was still going in her shorts, but it was just movement. It didn't cause her to spasm anymore, and she felt her feet and hands go numb, and she thought she saw gold and black sparkles, even though she knew her eyes were closed.

_I'm going to die, and I didn't even fight back._

Just as quickly as he had decided to kill her, he decided not to. His hand was off her nose and she was desperate to get air into her lungs. She tried to cough, but her mouth was still taped so she was left to try to gasp enough air through her nose to keep herself from losing consciousness.

Once she knew she wasn't going to die that minute, Hermione began to wail, unable to press her fear and anger down anymore.

"Hollis! Hide her NOW!"

Rumsburg's voice came from the other side of the room. It took Hermione a long time to notice that he was no longer touching her, because it felt like he still was.

But he sounded nervous about something, she realized. What had happened? She managed to stop crying and listen.

There was knocking at the front door.


End file.
